


Jesus Wept

by writingramblr



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Credence and Graves knew each other Pre-GG, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, Foot Massage, Graves thinks of himself as a dirty old man taking advantage, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Scenery Porn, Slow Build, he would be uhhh WRONG, limited pov, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 03:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr
Summary: Safe, secluded, alone.Percival Graves expects no visitors, and has very little freedom from nightmares.Contact from the outside world cannot ever be good, and he does not trust his own eyes.





	Jesus Wept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intravenusann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/gifts).



Credence Barebone died three days before Percival Graves was found.

Another Nomaj was discovered dead the day before Credence. His adoptive mother, then a Nomaj senator.

That made three in total.

Three innocent people who had to die, caught in the crossfire that was Grindelwald’s attempt to cause chaos in MACUSA. Well, he'd gotten what he wanted. A massive internal shakeup. Multiple firings. Deaths of innocent people ordered. Execution papers wrongly filed. Feathers of international wizards ruffled. People began whispering rumors, suspecting the worst of the Director himself.

Nevermind the fact that he was deemed innocent, found later, long after Grindelwald himself had been taken into custody. Percival Graves had been bound and gagged, held in a suitcase which had been charmed to appear like a matchbox, tucked into a box on his desk, filled with other things similar to garbage.

What happened next was less than typical. Percival Graves, the former Director of Magical Security, was kept dead, ordered away, and handed a decent amount of hush money. He didn’t need it, much less want it, but it seemed to assuage the President’s guilt, so he took it, and ignored her tight lipped apology.

Clearly, if she was really sorry, if they had ever _really been_ friends, none of this would have got that far. In the end he didn’t ask where they were sending him or under what name he was to go on living. He can never return to the Graves estate. His dead parents would be rolling in their jars of ash if they knew what had become of him, and the Graves line.

It was a betrayal of the highest caliber. He left New York in disgrace.

The infiltration of MACUSA was labeled a horrible tragedy. Unavoidable. Some might have even called it… inevitable.

His new surroundings were not all bad. Scores of lively birds were there to greet him in the morning, and then chirping crickets serenaded him after the sun went down. The air was the clearest, freshest he suspected he’d known in almost all his life, after living in the city for much of his adult years since Ilvermorny. If he could not have the wide open fields and shady willows of the Graves estate, he would learn to be content with the lush forests and greenery of Washington State. He currently resided in a log cabin, deep in the woods, with charms that he didn’t have to cast protecting him. A team of Aurors easy to contact in the city.

But he won’t. He knows. He will die defending himself, that much was certain. Never again will he be captured. He lived almost a world away, as many states as he could get, and all he missed from New York now slept among the dead. They were not even worthy of an obituary. He gripped his morning coffee with a shaky hand, and prayed for strength to a god he didn’t really believe in. But someone did. Someone good and kind and sweet and soft who he _let_ down, did. If a god was up there, he must hate Graves, truly, whether for what he was, or wanted to be, or became after Grindelwald.

God hates Percival Graves.

That’s the only explanation for it, for the haunting.

It must be.

Three and a half months of solitude in the forest that he now called his new home, he walked to the end of the lane and sees a ghost.

A wraith. The grim reaper himself, perhaps.

Did he trade his scythe for a suitcase? Graves must have missed that adaption of the fable. “Stay back, you don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

He was now just an old tired man with a wand that originally disobeyed him, and worked with a madman, sure.

But Graves has some of his old strength back, he stood tall, he glared, and it worked. Death wilted, and the shield Graves cast without a word wavered, but remained silver.

“Mister Graves. It _is_ you. They told me you knew.”

Graves died already. Someone killed him in his sleep. Surely that was the only possible explanation for such a vision in front of him. He wanted to scream. No one would hear him, the forest was very abundant, going on for miles in any direction. The only way to _accidentally_ stumble upon him… there was none.

The only way in was by programmed portkey, or perhaps a well instructed apparation. No one knows where or who he had become. Hearing his old name, his true name, was a jolt to his system, and he lifted his wand again, while swallowing around the lump in his throat at the new device of torture. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

“Who are you, and how did you find me?”

The dark haired figure moved, and the shield evaporated, as Graves held back a gasp. The display of causal power should boggle his mind, yet instead he found himself in awe. Whoever they were, their instructor was very good.

Deadly.

“It’s me, sir. Credence. They finally sent me. Later than expected… at least, that’s what Mister Scamander said. The testing and examinations took much longer. They wanted to be sure all of my dangerous capabilities were gone.”

His mind was still playing tricks on him. Did he have coffee that morning or did he imagine that? The birds have not gone silent, so for some reason, they do not fear this creature before Graves, wearing the achingly beautiful face from his past, the cause of his destruction, and sacrifice to wanton recklessness.

It had been his undoing. Grindelwald had been watching them for days, and maybe even weeks. He was good at wearing other people’s faces, Graves thought to himself. Frantically, he cast another charm, threw out another spell, he was feeling mildly panicked, visibly desperate, no doubt, wanting nothing more than to escape.

The person wearing Credence’s face said nothing, his expression didn’t change beyond a further expression of sorrow, and more steps advancing, until somehow, he’d crossed the threshold, stepped through the gate [it squeaked normally] and was now standing in front of Graves.

“You’re...not dead.”

“Neither are you, sir.”

Graves wanted to laugh. The noise came out sounding more like a dying animal, and he gritted his teeth, fighting every urge to reach out, to ensure it _was_ all real, the mere idea of having Credence in his arms again was maddening and so very impossible.

“So why now? Why are you here?” _‘How could you perform such advanced magic so quickly?’_

Credence worried his bottom lip between uneven teeth, and then rolled his shoulders, stopping himself a hair too late. Surely that was a gesture his foster mother tried to beat out of him. Graves’ chest ached at the thought. The numerous times he’d healed open wounds on the boy’s hands spring to mind, flashing by in a cacophony of moments. Afternoons in the alleyway, just out of sight, but still very much around the city, chattering muffled from a spell, as if they were alone in the world, just for those few precious seconds.

Graves held his wand steady, but the fierceness of his grip had eased, just slightly. Credence shifted his suitcase to his other hand before speaking,

“I was told it would be best for me. To stay with you. To finish learning magic with you. We’re to… recuperate together. To be fit to rejoin society.”

Magical society? Surely not. They’ve lied to the boy. The innocent and naive creature before him, who had been lied to almost all his life, and now, with a new life just out of reach, had been fed yet another.

“I think not. I’ve been summarily banished. I won’t be returning to New York, much less MACUSA.”

Credence blinked, and Graves suddenly became aware he’d neglected his houseshoes. He was lacking in height, so close to the boy, and it made him feel strange. Not inadequate, but off. Without his boots, the lifts, his overlarge coat, ridiculous tie pins and cufflinks et al, he was shockingly _ordinary_ next to the former nomaj.

It felt stupid really, to have made all the connections, to be preparing to approach the President with his findings, the suspicions about Credence _being_ the obscurial, only for it all to be thrown in his face, as he himself was tossed into a prison. Oh yes, that irony had stung.

“Oh.”

“I apologize, if they gave you that impression. But I’m in no fit state to instruct anyone. I’m not sure why you’d even want to be near me after-” He broke off, unsure and unwilling to finish that line of thought. He didn’t even _know_ what horrors might have been inflicted on the boy from Grindelwald wearing his face. He didn’t like to think about it without several fingers of scotch already down his throat, under cover of night.

“I know it wasn’t you. I think… I knew the moment he neglected to ask me how the testing for Modesty had been. The wand you gave me. She’d played with it, but nothing happened. She showed no signs of power. Not yet at least. She’s only seven. You said… you said sometimes one could be as old as ten before it manifested.”

Graves sighed, and then his eyes fell shut as he nodded. Of course. Something seemingly innocuous to them, would have been out of Grindelwald’s realm of caring. Credence continued, and his earnestness bled through his words, even as Graves was mildly lost taking in his improved haircut, his hands now both fumbling on the handle to his suitcase.

“He just kept asking ‘have you found the child? Where is the child?’ as if I was stupid. If I couldn’t do simple tasks. It was so confusing. But it wasn’t until he said _I_ was unteachable that I was sure. Then he hit me. It was all so obvious then.”

Graves hand tightened on his wand, and beneath his feet, the ground sprouted up weeds which then died in a split second as anger flared under his skin, “He didn’t.”

Credence nodded, somewhat sadly to himself, and then his eyes flickered up to Graves for a heartbeat, before dropping back down around his shoes. “I felt stupid then. Like all along. I should have known. Something was wrong.”

Graves inhaled slowly, and then shook his head,

“Nonsense. He’s a master manipulator. He knew how to… well. No matter. You’re here now. Come on inside, I guess. I haven’t even finished breakfast.” He backed away, up onto the porch, where there would be further charms blocking intrusion and danger, if indeed Credence was somehow a threat who was merely playing the long game. Nothing happened. He followed Graves slowly, and the front door opened smoothly,

“Do you drink coffee?”

Credence coughed,

“Oh, yes. Thank you. I did eat already though, I’m sorry, it’s almost two in the afternoon in New York. Or was. When I left.”

Graves’ mouth quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. Not quite.

“Time zones, they’ll make your head hurt.”

The cabin wasn’t the Graves estate by any means, but it had so far been very comfortable, and plenty of space existed in it that Graves hadn’t touched, so he directed Credence to another room, with its own bathroom and porch extension, as well as a set of bookshelves.

If he knew anything, it was that Credence would not have been sent off to _learn_ without school texts in tow. When the suitcase was opened, and Credence began to unpack, Graves was proven correct.

He didn’t even have to tell the boy that studying was important, learning could only come first by discerning the best way one _did_ learn, and Credence read a lot before attempting to perform any spells. He reads and reads and reads so much Graves wondered if he was in danger of hurting his eyes.

For days Graves would come out and find Credence already up, sitting in the living room, planted in front of the fireplace, cross legged, and bent over some book. Could be the same book. Or another. A week passed the same, and he finally broke down, nagging as kindly as he could, “If you keep that up you’ll hurt your back.”

It all that time, while Credence had been sharing the cabin with him, he’d been the most hands off teacher in the history of magical instruction in America, he thought to himself. Credence glanced over, frowning slightly, as Graves cradled a cup of very strong tea, no milk, no sugar, nothing but five minutes of steeping in hand.

“The pain helps me focus.”

It hit him like a fist to the gut, and he had to go over to the couch and sit down before trying to speak. Credence’s eyes followed him, and he gently closed the tome, sighing quietly.

“You… you’re still following _her_ rules.”

He had not posed a question. Credence just had been doing it, and perhaps, hoped he wouldn’t notice. Graves looked now, and he could see it in the way Credence sheepishly nodded, and then rolled his shoulders. He was uncomfortable, clearly. Perhaps he had been _spelling_ his muscles to unspool after being so tensed up. Besides being rather risky, it would only be a temporary solution.

Graves’ fingers itched, but he made no move to offer any sort of advice or assistance. His tongue remained flat in his mouth, throat on the verge of closing up. Credence blinked, and the silence reigned on.

Graves took another sip of his tea to avoid saying anything terribly foolish, and Credence opened his book again, breaking the stare that stretched between them. The moment had passed. Nothing was accomplished, except, Graves now realized that habit was truly something ingrained down to the _marrow_ after enough repetition. How had it come to that? He wasn’t sure.

When Credence was ready for him to actually teach, he would be around. The porch wasn’t far, the forest never stifling. Somehow, Graves found himself growing more anxious the closer he got to the boy, so he walked away.

He went out to sit and stare at all the copious green, slowly drinking his tea, letting the warmth seep through his veins, and he hoped that someday it might still turn out to all be a horrible dream he created, lying near death in the box.

Every day, Credence proved him wrong.

 

Occasionally, Graves became wracked with nightmares, and he woke up, panting for breath, sheets a sweaty prison around his legs and waist, as if he’d been trying to run, most times.

Since Credence had been there, he would find something different upon opening his eyes.

The first time it happened, Graves stared into the darkness, and saw gently glowing silver stars, hovering over him.

They calmed him, grounded him, let him know that it was all real, he was safe. The fourth night in a row that they appeared, he knew. They were simple magic, but _Graves_ didn’t cast them, certainly not while fighting off the monsters in his mind.

Graves slumped back onto the bed, and he wondered how many nights he’s woken Credence up with his shouting. Did he craft a spell himself out of impatience or read about it in one of his books? How much good had Graves really been doing, all this time?

Whose idea was it to send Credence out there, after him? This proximity was not great for his already fractured self image. He loved Credence… he _thought_ foolishly. How foolish he’d been, to imagine that when all had been said and done, paperwork filed, dust settled, that there could have been _something_ between them.

If not for Grindelwald. If not for a lot of things.

So instead, Graves went through all the motions, and simply, did his best. He made tea for two, and cooked awfully dull toast and eggs, sometimes with bacon, then plated them, and took his own breakfast to eat elsewhere, charming the portion for Credence to stay warm. For he did not want to pull him from his reading, or push him to do things he might not be used to. Like eating regularly. Socializing with the one other person in the house.

The cabin. Graves’ last sanctuary was no longer his and his alone.

The thought should not torture him, linger in the air like a cloud of smoke, but it _did._

 

One night, Credence had gone out to catch fireflies for something, some potion he’d decided to try his hand at, only then does Graves reach for the bottle. When he won’t be seen. It had been almost a month since he’d touched it. Craved it. He still didn’t. It was just… there.

He poured a glass, and drank, and winced and sighed, disappointed with himself. He then put it back, slamming the scotch bottle down none too gently. Credence returned, and smiled at him, mason jar held out, twinkling lights captured within. A rush of fresh air, the scent of pine needles and ozone, along with something sharper pricks Graves’ senses.

Then the thing in Graves’ chest started to clench and writhe around, as he put a hand to his ribs, rubbing absentmindedly over one of the newer scars, he prayed that was where the pain was coming from.

“Successful mission I see.” His voice sounded like the road, rocky and rough, well traveled but now abandoned. He would summon a cigarette if he could, if it wouldn’t be utterly pointless, a further distraction from the fact that simply remained…. Credence. The boy who had somehow wormed his way past Graves’ ironclad defenses and numerous lies to himself.

“Yes. This will be perfect for my experiment.” Graves frowned. “What’s that?”

The blessing in disguise came in the form of his empty hands, as Credence’s face turned pink and it made Graves once again want to drop everything just to take him into his arms again.

“Well, you’ve been so kind and hospitable. I wanted to find a way to pay you back. Then I read about this thing… it helps restore strength, and fights sadness.”

Graves swallowed, “Sounds like something we could both use.”

Credence was nodding, and then twisting the jar in his hands, sending the lightbugs aflutter.

“Jesus repaid kindness in many ways. I know I’ve probably neglected my back. You walk with a limp. I wanted to offer this.” Graves winced, and then spared a glance to Credence’s shoulders, currently crunched forward. His posture really was _abysmal_ sometimes, or all the time. “You noticed that?”

What stood out to him, was the fact Credence even cared at all, much less wanted to try something that healers surely would have done already. Unless somehow, the young mind of an overmature obscurial knew something the best medical minds of the country did not? Graves found himself leaning towards a yes.

“It’s really obvious when you first wake up. Or if a storm is coming. Like tonight.”

Already the soft pitter patter of rain had started, though the booming thunder could not be long off. It rained off and on every week, sometimes for days on end, but harsh storms were much rarer. They do ache against the bones, changes in the atmosphere burn Graves’ leg like a motherfucker. That splintered bone had almost killed him, if it hadn’t been poorly fixed, as he was assured slimily that he was much too important to be left to bleed out.

“And you? How can I help you?”

Graves blurted out, before he could think better of it, and Credence startled, looking on the verge of falling over.

“My shoulders. I hoped… I thought you could break up the knots.”

Even the prospect of being allowed to put his hands back on Credence, for purely medicinal purposes only, that was plenty enough to make Graves feel dizzy. It could also be the scotch he chugged. Maybe. “Oh.”

“I have to go catch some fresh rainwater now. For the potion.” Credence was saying, as if the world hadn’t suddenly been thrust into overdrive, and Graves wasn’t facing his worst fear. His own desire. The lack thereof was blindingly apparent. He’d been ignoring, neglecting, deflecting, pretending it didn’t matter, having the one person most important to him, _there_ , so close, close enough to touch.

He didn’t sleep all night, after limping away to his room, once he’d wished Credence luck with the brewing. He laid awake, listening to the storm, and the sounds of what had to have been Credence puttering about, using a soup pot in lieu of a cauldron, singing to himself. It was soft and a repeating melody after four or so lines. Graves understood with a start the second time he heard the words _‘cross’_ and ‘ _his blood.’_ Not a song about magic, not even a jazz tune. It was quite pointedly a hymn. Even after all the grief religion and church going brought him, Credence’s painful past hung over him like a shadow, in a manner that the obscurus might have, had it been threatened.

Even so, Credence still could find comfort in the music from that institution. That alone was enough to sting Graves’ eyes with tears at the sheer compassion of it all.

Graves turns to his side, and finally drifted to sleep, just minutes before dawn. He had no nightmares, and silence was still heavy in the cabin when he awoke. He was mildly disoriented but fairly well rested, opening his eyes around noon. He staggered out to the kitchen, barefoot and wearing his usual wrinkled moss colored robe over threadbare red checked sleep pants. He found Credence curled up, asleep in front of the fireplace.

The soup pot was simmering merrily, smelling of spearmint, its contents resembling liquid copper. He was not sure how it could possibly help with his leg, but Graves was game to find out. First thought, they both need some breakfast. He did his best to stay quiet, but after the tea kettle whistled, the battle was lost, and Credence stirred. Graves brought over a cup of tea, grimacing in apology, but any words he might have offered died instantly on his tongue. Credence’s hair was mussed from sleeping on his side, cheeks pink and lined from resting on his sleeve, and when he smiled, the sun rose all over again. Graves had to sit down to keep from falling over on his weak knees.

“So, uh, is that it?”

He nodded to the potion, and Credence lit up further, jolting something in Graves’ gut and sending a sliver of warmth down his spine. “Yes! It’s deceptively pretty. Just has to cool for a bit, before it can be applied. It’s like a salve.”

Graves nodded, understandingly, still amazed at Credence’s talent and dedication. He could have burned the cabin down with his idea, and yet instead he had been fully successful. Graves wished he’d been half as motivated when he was Credence’s age. He wouldn’t be the former Director of MACUSA Security if he had been, however. Another line of thought that deserved no space in his brain. He flicked it away, and concentrated on drinking his tea.

Credence moved sluggishly, but eventually got to his feet and started cleaning up any supposed clutter he made from his operations during the night. Graves didn’t argue but instead just watched him. Credence moved with jerky hesitation and smooth completion as he realized Graves wasn’t going to chastise him or tell him things don’t go there or that was wrong.

“Mister Scamander is very particular.” That’s all the explanation he offered, while Graves fought off a spear of jealousy in his gut.

He couldn’t feel that, he didn’t deserve to.

Credence charmed the pot away from the fire, and went to set it outside on the porch, under the eaves, so there won’t be any _‘Imbalance of additional unnecessary rainwater.’_

He came back, still smiling faintly, and Graves was only human, rather weak.

“Do you want me to take a look at your shoulders now, while we wait?” He set his now empty tea cup down and tried not to look anxious. It had to be the caffeine buzzing through him, not the prospect of finally giving into the agonizingly tempting idea that was being able to _touch_ Credence again.

“Oh. Yes. Okay. It’s probably worse after last night.” Credence sighed, as if Graves didn’t see him with his own two eyes willingly wear himself out enough to sleep on the floor. He hummed to himself instead, and Credence shrugged out of his tunic, baring his upper body with only minimal shyness. Almost as if he’s been... practicing for this moment. Credence doesn’t look away from Graves, but does apologize again. “Ignore the scars. I know they’re ugly.”

Graves wanted to hunt down every single person who hurt Credence _and_ whoever had told him such a thing, but he suspected that somehow, the targets were already long dead. He made a noise in his throat and shifted over on the couch, so that Credence could sit beside him, turning to face away from him, one leg bent up on the seat, shoulders right _there_ , ready to be taken care of.

Graves’ fingers flexed, and his magic built through his very core, before his palms made contact with the boy’s shoulders, and Credence jolted, but bit back any sound he might have made. A part of Graves died at that. The warmth, searing and present was enough to make his eyes flutter closed, and he took a steadying breath, trying to maintain his fucking sanity. Graves’ thumbs dug into the flat of Credence’s shoulder blades, and magic sang over the surface of his skin, healing what he could, easing the angry red scarring of what was too deeply ingrained.

Credence shuddered under his touch, and Graves wanted to never let go of him. But he moved instead. He undulated his fingers and palms, and did his best to dissolve the dozens and dozens of knots, the ugliest and hardest ones were likely years old. But magic could help. Credence may never have imagined such a thing was possible, but he would be left feeling boneless and appeared to be kept upright only by Graves’ hands on him. He had barely shifted down, following the curve of the boy’s spine, when it happened. A low noise, bit off, but there. A moan.

Graves’ heart jumped, and heat coils tight in his abdomen. _‘Fight it. Ignore it.’_ He thought. It was a perfectly normal reaction to the muscle tension and release. Credence squirmed and then turned back, catching Graves on the verge of hyperventilating from trying to massage his lower back,

“Mister Graves… is everything okay? You’ve been so quiet.” Graves gave a quick jerk of his head, nodding the affirmative, and then a smile he didn’t mean.

“Just trying to focus.”

“Okay.”

Credence turned back around, and Graves heaved a sigh of relief. He allowed himself to indulge for the last time, before casting a quick charm to numb his arousal. After that, if Credence had any inkling, he would have to run away to his room and never leave again. Credence would end up fending for himself, feeding himself, and maintaining the cabin til the end of their days. That would be the only thing for it. He finished with Credence’s back, and watched as the boy moved, as if underwater, or perhaps drunk, retrieving his shirt and pulling it back on, almost missing the hole for his head to fit through, frowning somewhat dazedly at it.

“Thank you.”

Graves was halfway through lurching to his feet, escaping, and he caught himself at the last second, sending his empty mug to the kitchen before he could make it. Credence’s hands wrang together in front of his chest, and Graves found it endearing. Every damned thing the boy did could be called just that. Just when Graves didn’t think he could love him more, couldn’t be more over the moon, done and gone, Credence was just so painfully _sweet_. “You’re welcome.” His voice was a croak, and his leg was killing him. He needed to lay down, if only so he could end the madness.

“I’ll uh, go check on the potion.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t look, he won’t stare, but Credence slipped towards his room, rather than the back porch, and Graves had a momentary thought of ‘ _what if,_ ’ before it was gone in a flicker, and he was back to running.

His own room was a quiet safe place, and he cast the muffling charm like it was breathing, collapsing back onto his bed, not even bothering to play around, just shoving his hand through the gap in his robe, under the waistband of his sleep pants, and undoing the modesty charm in his cursed length. It took less than a dozen quick tugs, and then he found himself awash in pleasure, welcoming his arousal with open arms, spilling onto his fingers and up to his chest, shaking and tingling from the relief of it.

His orgasm had stolen over him in under a minute, and now, laying and not basking in the aftermath, he hated himself twice over. He lazily snapped his fingers to clean away the evidence of his momentary lapse and then lowered the charms.

He sat up slowly, and still had to catch his breath. Instead of the serenity of the afternoon, he went back out to the living room to find the fireplace simmering down to embers, and there was Credence, as usual, kneeling beside the couch, looking as if on the verge of praying.

He rubbed his hands together with purpose, and that was when Graves noticed a shimmer, a sheen of bronze between them, no, more like copper. The finished potion. His leg twinged in anticipation.

“Is that…?”

“It’s room temperature. So it won’t hurt or shock your skin, should be perfect. If you’re ready?” Graves was so mortified. He had thought, wrongly, they’d both gone off to do the same thing. A frantic moment of stolen bliss. But no.

He was the only one slightly sweaty around the temples and over the back of his neck. Graves was the one who just had to give in to the urge to touch himself in the middle of the day to keep his damned feelings at bay.

Oh. Just him.

Graves sat on the couch, an air of defeat no doubt visible haloing him, and he gingerly extended his injured leg. “Okay.”

Credence shuffled closer, and then blinked up at him. Graves thought it was awful damned lucky he just jerked off, otherwise he’d be in big trouble right about now, with the boy at waist height, looking that pretty. He always looked beautiful, especially in the mornings, and afternoons, also at sunset. He was just... breathtaking, and he’s speaking and Graves had been lost in his eyes. “What? Sorry.”

Credence smiled and then repeated his question.

“I’d like to start with your feet and work up to the injury. To ensure total coverage.” The injury began mid calf, so it wasn’t that big of a deal, but somehow Graves felt odd about it. Like it’s too poetic. He had no idea what bible stories it could possibly be similar to, but he _just knew_ it had to be in there somewhere.

“Can you take off your pants?”

Graves was blushing now, he knew that much. Long before Credence had even finished asking, and his mind needed to calm the fuck down. It was a perfectly reasonable request, he was also clad in a full bathrobe. He walked around looking like some kind of main street war veteran inside his own home.

“Sure.” He vanished them easily, and tried not to think about how they’ve switched places. Credence, shirtless, under his less than capable hands, to him, now, pants free, with Credence preparing to sort of fondle his leg, or both legs, apparently.

“Great.” Credence propped up Graves’ formerly injured leg onto his own thigh, then put both hands on his foot, gently but firmly massaging the top of it, and pressing his thumbs up into the arch. The medicine, the potion, the magic, was immediate. It felt cool and soothing, even if the temperature of the substance was still anything but.

Graves fisted his hands in his robe to keep from making an undignified sound, and Credence kept going, pausing only once to retrieve more of the coppery stuff, which almost resembled a gel, and then it was being slathered on his skin, before being worked in.

Soaking into the bone, it felt. Graves found himself staring at Credence’s hands to avoid looking to his face, which was scrunched in concentration, and his tongue occasionally poked out between his lips somewhat temptingly and adorable as hell. His hands were elegant if ungainly, long fingered in a manner suiting spellwork with a wand, not meant for filing or pointless desk work. He should do that, teach charms, or... or something similar, perhaps with an instrument.

By the time Credence switched to Graves’ other foot, and slowly rubbed and massaged up his leg, he had begun to consider the fact that God may have rethought his _anti-Graves_ dictation of the world.

The moment he found himself in now was by far, the most bizarre and wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. His leg wasn’t even in pain, and his entire lower body felt lit afire, the whole room now smelled pleasantly of mint. Credence stopped, letting go of him, but Graves’ feet remain resting over him, one atop each of his thighs, while he stared up at him.

“So, feeling any better?”

Graves opened his mouth to give a resounding yes, but something else came out instead.

“I’m sorry.”

Credence’s dark brows met in a frown, and Graves wanted to slap himself.

“For what?”

“I feel I’ve taken advantage of you.” Graves licked his lips and looked away as Credence echoed the movement, perhaps unconsciously. Of course it was. He had to be totally unaware of how damned lovely he was. “How?”

Graves fluttered a hand through the air, in Credence’s general direction. “This, whole thing. It’s all been a ploy to have you near me.”

Credence snorted, an extremely inelegant sound. “You didn’t do this. I offered.”

“Only because you felt you needed to repay me, out of guilt.” He was still decidedly not looking at the boy, which turned out to be a mistake.

“I did this because I _wanted_ to. I didn’t get sent here on a whim. I _asked_ about you. I found out the truth. I missed you. I _loved_ you. I still do. I thought… somehow, you _knew_?”

Graves’ ears and heart and brain and lungs were all warring against him, he thought. Playing tricks. When he stole a glance back down to Credence, the boy was watching him, eyes widening, lips parted, and his hands...oh fuck those hands were resting gently on Graves’ thighs. When did that happen? They were burning into his skin, his _bare_ skin. He suddenly became painfully aware of his robe being the only item of clothing on him, and Credence was in between his spread legs. _Fuck._

“You… can’t possibly-”

“-Don’t presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, think, or feel, Mister Graves. Especially when I can see every fiber of your being is crying out to reciprocate. Why won’t you?”

Graves closed his eyes, because it was easier to hide, and always will be. His hands were still fisted, but now they ached to hold something other than terry cloth, he wanted to grasp the back of Credence’s neck and shove him close for further wickedness or pull him in for a kiss, he couldn’t seem to decide.

“I can’t.”

His voice caught on a sob, and the hands pushed down, until he thought Credence might let go of him and walk out the door forever, which would be another bad thing, another mistake he simply could not live with. So his eyes snapped open, and he found Credence’s face inches from his own. His pupils were dilated, black swallowed brown, and those lips, that perfect plush pink mouth was just _begging_ to be kissed. “Mister Graves, tell me to stop.”

He drew in a ragged breath, and then smiled sadly, “I can’t do that either.” Credence made a sound like a whimper, and then surged forward, to close the gap, thus, brought their lips together.

Graves let him, and then answered it with a firm press back, kissing Credence like a man starving, all the while his long fingers and blunt nails dug into Graves’ thighs. When Graves let go of his own robe to reach up and pull the boy down, down steadily into his lap, Credence moved with him.

Credence was now perched over him, and light as a feather, despite his proper diet and minimal exercise of the last few weeks, and Graves was unable to do anything but keep going. Credence had been making regular noises like he’s gasping for air, so Graves broke the kiss and put his mouth to that sharp jawline, tongue and lips and teeth dragging and marking without much thought behind intent to _claim_ and have and take.

Credence’s arms wound around his neck and his thighs squeezed over Graves’ legs, as his own hands settled on slim hips, fingers holding through the fabric of his tunic, feeling the edge of his waist and then sliding back, framing the curve and dip of his spine.

He _fit_ against Graves like he was made for him. Credence was definitely taller here too, sitting down, sitting _over_ him, and having to look down his nose to kiss Graves, but he loved it. He wanted to drown in the moment, but Credence had other ideas. His hands dip under the collar and neckline of Graves’ robe, and he sighed, “Can I kiss your neck too?”

Graves smiled, more to himself than for Credence’s benefit, and he nodded,

“You can do anything you want to me, kissing included.” Credence let out a startled noise, and then Graves was being guided to turn, to lay back, so he was flat on the couch, with his robe promptly tugged open, ties undone, allowing free reign. Credence’s hands left not a single inch of his body untouched, though none of the mint potion remained on his skin, Graves swore every place the boy touched lit up. That was to say nothing of Credence’s hesitant but determined exploration of Graves’ own scars, and then below his navel.

When Credence settled between his legs again, now over him, and put a hand firmly to Graves’ cock, he wanted to apologize for the fact that he was painfully hard, shaking to pieces from a mere touch, a slow stroke and hint of a thumb rubbing across the slick head, but he couldn’t really help it. Credence watched in apparent awe as Graves’ back arched when he came, white drooling ropes landing over his stomach and across curious fingers. “Oh...is that… did I-”

“It’s just...my apparent adoration.”

Credence beamed, hand to god fucking smiled at Graves like it was Christmas or something, but then again, had he ever experienced that? Graves wasn’t sure suddenly, and all he wanted to do was kiss that smile, and taste it. Credence climbed back up the length of his body and once again, the weight doesn’t matter, he could perch there forever, Graves would carry him on his back till he dropped. But there _was_ a lot of clothing in the way, so magic helped, again, as always.

Graves groaned from the skin to skin contact, then choked at the mess he’d made of them both, smearing his sticky cool release on Credence’s upper body, until he felt the way it made the boy tremble, renewed heat nudged up against his stomach. Credence was hard too, and certainly had been patient and good and selfless.

“Can I put you in my mouth?” Graves asked, half delirious with need, if Credence said no, or insisted it wasn’t necessary, he’d simply have to move heaven and earth to find a way to bring the boy an orgasm without touching him.

“Yes… please, Mister Graves…”

He could breathe again, and it was okay. Graves urged him to sit back up, and they reverse positions, to allow Credence to blink up at him, pink cheeks and shyness now, even though he’d just taken Graves apart. His cock was as pretty and pink as the rest of him, but for the flushed red tip, and the beads of clear precome dripping onto his stomach, heaving as he panted for air. Graves closed his eyes, reverent in his worship, and put his mouth from Credence’s collarbone to his stomach, before finally taking the holiest communion, and swiping his tongue over the head of the boy’s cock. He received a strangled gasp, and a bucking of hips, along with a hand tentatively stroking over his head and then landing on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Yes?” He grinned cheekily up at Credence who seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Can I hold your hair while you’re… there?” Graves nodded, before making sure to graze his mouth against the length of Credence’s cock, relishing how he trembled.

“Pull on my hair if it becomes too much.” Credence actually whined, at the sudden way which Graves swallowed around him, taking half of his length into his mouth, if only to show off, and he then tried to encourage him to be as noisy as he wanted.

Graves treasured every whimper and moan, along with the eventual keen that tapered off into a sob when Credence came, cock pulsing wetly down Graves’ throat, bittersalt warmth almost a comforting reminder. It tasted fairly bad, but the pleasure derived was what made it all worth it. He was grateful that Credence didn’t try to be too adventurous.

He’ll work up to that.

He hopes.

Credence appeared boneless, sated, and Graves got up on shaky but no longer sore legs, to scoop the boy into his arms, and carried him from the couch, from the living room to _his_ room, before he mumbled a ‘no’ into Graves’ chest.

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Credence put a hand to his shoulder, curling his fingers at the nape of his neck, then squeezed gently. “Please, take me to your room.” Graves tightened his hold automatically and almost turned on his heel in his haste.

Credence hummed in satisfaction, and then he was being tucked under Graves’ sheets, covered with his blanket, and a hand shot out to grab his wrist. He looked down at Credence, drowsy with the afterglow, and he smiled.

“It’s okay. Just rest. I’ll fix us an early dinner.”  

A sound resembling a soft ‘ _no_ ,’ left Credence’s throat again. Graves lingered, reaching out to stroke his fingers over the sweaty dark waves on the boy’s forehead.

“What is it, Credence?” His head turned, letting Graves cup his cheek, “Won’t you stay, please? Just for a little bit. M’not hungry.”

He wasn’t either, come to think of it, but Credence didn’t need to give him a convincing argument to urge him to climb into bed with him. He sighed heavily, and pretended to think, before Credence’s eyes were opening, and his bottom lip wavered. That was all Graves wanted. He lifted the covers and Credence shifted over, allowing him space to slide in, before being curled up against, his arms automatically wrapping around the boy’s waist. Graves felt lips against his chest, and then a mumbled affirmation.

He never said it back.

Time to redeem that small trespass.

He kissed Credence’s temple. “I love you.”

Graves couldn’t make out Credence’s smile from the odd angle, but he knew that it was a fact.

  


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**END**


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